


LotR Drabbles

by ancient illwynd (illwynd)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-27
Updated: 2006-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:56:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9072628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwynd/pseuds/ancient%20illwynd
Summary: A collection of LotR drabbles, many focused on Gondor.





	1. Paths

**Author's Note:**

> Just transferring these over from LJ for archiving. Nothing new here!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did Boromir insist on going to seek Imladris?

Late at night, the stars looked different; the constellations had traced their old paths. He usually didn’t see them thus, but he had woken early from a dream just like the one Faramir had dreamt, and so different from the nightmare images of defeat that filled his sleep of late. He stared out as the stars crept towards morning. If he could follow this dream, it would give him a worthy purpose other than fighting a losing battle. It would steal his despair and lead him through the darkness. Come morning, he would tell Denethor; _he_ would go to Imladris.


	2. Paths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble of intentional ambiguity.

His wounds ached, drawing him into darkness. His mistakes pained him more. Why had he desired it so badly, its gleam and all its meaning? He had been blinded. How he had railed against his small friend (if he could still be permitted to call him so) and even cursed him, after their long road together! He needed to see the hobbit again, needed to apologize…   
  
He now understood, but too late. It seemed so long ago that he had arrived at the Lucky Number’s door. He wished he were there still, and wise enough to simply stay for tea.


	3. Proof

Boromir’s hair is soft against Faramir’s lips, and he breathes in his scent. His brother’s body against him is warm. His knees are hooked over Boromir’s arms, and he clings tightly to him. In the darkness of closed eyes, he knows nothing but him. The motion is not jarring, but lulling. Boromir whispers to him and the words hum through his form. This is comfort, a world of only them together. They could stay this way eternally.  
  
But all pig-a-back rides must end, even when they are given to prove that little brothers can still be carried, even at 13.


	4. Conversation and Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion drabble to "Truce"

The torchlight flickered on the pale, smooth-polished sides of the little box held out in the Haradrim captain’s hand.  
  
“And what do you ask in return for this gift?”  
  
“Just the chance to know what sort of Men your people are. There are rumours that Men of Gondor are cruel and wicked. I would know the truth, if I am to fight you.”  
  
Faramir had agreed.   
  
Many years later, he would give this as a gift to Elboron, and tell him of a long-ago Yule, and wonder if his friend of that night had lived to pass on his gift.


	5. Guilt

Boromir knew guilt.  
  
It had gnawed at his stomach, when he was young; he could remember his mother, but Faramir could not. It clutched at his heart whenever Faramir was viewed with a critical eye by their father. Did he deserve to be the favored son? He had pushed it down violently after the loss of Osgiliath- and many of his men. Could he have done anything differently?  
  
It froze his being as he walked slowly back to his companions, and he knew it was well-deserved.  
  
His guilt poured out onto the ground and fled with his final breath.  
  
Absolution.


	6. Death Is...

Death is a scandal, to those who have survived far worse.  
Death is a torture, for those who suffer in their last moments, long or brief.  
Death is a cheat, to those who have only lived a little while, and had high hopes.  
Death is a sacrifice, for those who knew the danger, and went anyway.  
Death is an insult, to those who had just learned how to live.  
Death is a relief, to those who were burdened too much.  
Death is a shameful thing, to those who believed they would win their battles.  
Death is a waste, to those who had things to do.  
  
Death is a tragedy.  
  
The last battle you must lose.  
The last pain you must feel.  
The only certainty you must accept.  
Is it a wonder, or a curse?  
Will I see you there?  
  
Awestruck.  
By a cold stone, I think of you.  
Gone without a trace.  
A shadow stands near.  
Death waits.


	7. Fangorn

 

  
Far    I roam;              a lofty               elevation or

river’s             water    are    never       toilsome         

obstacles.  Forests perpetual        are my        one wardship.   
Talk       slowly,      my friend.        Hoom    hom.   Ent

language,  yes, is     unhasty;    wearisome maybe.     Regardless,        
if        Entwives   traverse       near…     (I         speculate;

already     I roamed    westwards.    And         eastwards,         shriveled

are     Entwife        lands!)        A     surpassing        hasty  business      
is     undertaken,    searching through.      Soon       combating,        Ents   
will march!          Affraying at    the          stronghold,   proving   
strength!   A      clever       fool,   traitorous       master   
of   Isengard,         except      he   disregards         adjacent    
neighbors,         mistaking

Fangorn’s

drowse of

watchful

continuing

for weak

downfall.

As trees

see, they,

if antagonized,

emanate     terrifying powers.     Enemies dissipate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble poem is not only a true drabble (100 words) but it also follows another constraint: if you count the number of letters in each word... it's 101 digits of pi.


	8. Dreams and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various dreams and nightmares of other paths. Written for Back to Middle-Earth month 2006.

_**Living Dream** (belatedly dedicated to my friend Manveru)  
  
In Irmo’s garden of living dream, Nienna walks, sometimes. The beauty of Lorien is perfect, splendid in all ways. Life flourishes as it once did. Irmo wonders why, in this unspoiled place, she still weeps. He does not hear what she hears; the sobs and pleas of the injured and dying, the dirges of the grieving, the gasping breath of despair touching a thousand hearts, the near-silent hum of a world in pain. She walks, and imagines the world as it might have been, unmarred. She walks, and weeps, and dreams that no discord had ever come into the Song._  
  
 **Bittersweet**  
  
After the council, Elrond sat long in thought before sleep crept over him. The tense meeting between Estel and the stranger from the south brought to mind a long-abandoned path, and in his dream he saw its final ending. No man of Gondor had come so far north, so near to their estranged kin. Arnor, never divided but again besieged, had sent its prince to seek counsel. The man, never named Estel and not betrothed to Arwen, would not travel with the company.  
  
The Fellowship would go with less hope. But Arwen would be safe.   
  
Elrond’s waking smile tasted bitter-sweet.  
  
 _ **Dreaming of Sleep**  
  
Gollum dreamed. Mostly dreams of fish, or juicy fresh meat, but sometimes there were other dreams, forgotten upon waking. Dreams of sunlight that was warm and welcome, dreams of friendly faces, dreams of pleasant things. There was comfort in those dreams, and he would feel light and happy for the rest of the day, dark as his days were at the roots of the mountain. The other dreams, dreams of his grandmother, the whispers that had driven him away, those made him twitch in his sleep, and put him in a nasty mood, and made him hungry. The rarest dreams were the shortest, and the worst. He would sometimes dream that he felt Deagol’s fingers curling around his throat, and he would feel himself becoming weak, and letting the precious thing fall from his grasp. His eyes would darken on the sight of his friend holding the shining thing up to the light, smiling. In his sleep he would smile as well, and would dream no more that night, for his dream was of death long ago, and rest, and peace. Those dreams were awful, and when he woke he would hold his Precious tightly, never wanting to let go._  
  
 **In the Dark**  
  
Gandalf stared out across the sea, standing next to the other ringbearers at the Havens. He looked at the old hobbit beside him, and suddenly he remembered an odd, forgotten dream that had come to him years ago, after his suspicions were confirmed and he had returned briefly to Imladris. He had dreamed of quiet footsteps in darkness, and ripples lapping in a pool. He heard stumbling, and the sound of a hobbit picking himself up and dusting himself off without pause. _He did not pick it up!_ Gandalf watched as Sting’s light illuminated the cave, and the two figures within. He watched the riddle game progress, and he saw Bilbo falter for words, unable to come up with another riddle. He had nothing in his pocket.

Sting clattered to the ground unused, and Gandalf wanted to shut his eyes on the scene before him. Gollum, wandering after the last of his meal, put his hand on the ground.  
  
“Ah! The Precious? Did we drop you? Must be more careful, gollum…” When Gandalf woke, he had shuddered and sought Bilbo, who was dozing peacefully. If all fates are half-chance, Gandalf thought to himself then, lucky number he had been indeed.  
  
 _ **Neither**  
  
Pippin had fallen asleep waiting for Gandalf to return to their rooms in Minas Tirith. The Lord of the City had said something after Faramir had left once again; it had been only a chance comment, like a private thought put to voice, and not meant for his ears, but still Pippin couldn’t get it out of his mind.  
  
“I ought to have never allowed either of my sons to chase a riddle! Would that I had not, and they were both still here beside me!” Denethor had muttered bitterly.  
  
Now that sentence haunted his dreams and troubled his sleep. He dreamed of setting out from Rivendell months before, with eight companions, but no horn sounded in the valley. He dreamed of walking ever southwards, with kin and friends and the dwarf and _two _elves, the other surely a mighty elven warrior, but still the change put him bereft of the kindly companionship of one he wouldn’t have known to miss. It also put the company without the one among them who knew of journeys in high places. Pippin dreamed of a mountain, and of blue-white cold, and of death. When he woke in the morning sun, he still shivered._  
  
 **Bright Halls**  
  
The first night under the eaves of the Golden Wood, the occasional murmurs of grief that echoed around the camp did not disturb Gimli’s sleep. He had laid down to dreams grateful for the respite. Now, in dreams, he was happy. The Fellowship again was entering Moria, and once through the doors they had been met by Balin’s folk. They were escorted through long passages to the great halls, and the halls of Khazad-dûm were lit with great lamps. They were led to a room with long tables adorned with all the foodstuffs a hungry dwarf could dream of, and plenty of ale, and the ancient workmanship of the walls around him was by itself a feast for the eyes. Better still was the sight of Balin, alive and well, and others of his kin that Gimli had known or met. The fellowship had rested there in those fine halls for days, hearing tell of the original struggle with Orcs, and the dwarves’ triumph, and their subsequent work, and at last when it was time to head onward, they left untroubled, and their number was still nine.  
  
Gimli woke in the darkness of the wood, with tears wetting his face.  
  
 _ **Final Journey**  
  
Merry had long wished to make this journey, and as he and Pippin passed the borders into Gondor, they shared a smile at their memories, and headed onward to meet again their friends. But Merry’s dreams that night were dark. He saw this same journey, taken alone, to Rohan only. He saw the White Lady, solemn Queen of her people, who sat alone. They spoke of ruined Gondor in the south, and the doomed battle they had both missed. Only Pippin’s presence and the far-off sight of the White City, glorious in the dawn, could shake away his waking terror._  
  
 **To Dust**  
  
Bilbo had been in Rivendell, without his Ring, for years before Gandalf told him the true nature of the Ring. That night, he had not slept soundly. He had been thinking just before sleep of how close he and the Ring had come to the Necromancer, passing only to the north of his fortress on the forest road. He had shuddered to think of what might have happened. His dreams managed to envision other bad ends. He dreamed of a stone crashing down onto his helm during the Battle, and of the blackness that followed, though he did not wake from it this time. He dreamed of seeing himself appear again suddenly in the midst of the crows’ feast, unmoving. He watched the dwarves and the Lake-men lower him into the grave and cover him with earth, the Ring still on his finger; magic or not, it had been his, and they would not have robbed him of it even in death. He dreamed of some distant day, when the ground had changed and his bones were dust; a golden Ring lay on the ground unguarded, and an eye wreathed in flame sought it with the wrath of long waiting…  
  
 __ **Listen…**  
  
Frodo watched as the distant havens dwindled. He thought of the life he might have lived, comfort in the Shire. That life, however, was separated from him by more than the green rushing waves, and his dreams that night sang of stars above the sea-mists, shining on the farthest shore.


	9. First Impression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of what Boromir was thinking of at the Council of Elrond.

He listens as the history of his people is told by one who has lived since long before Gondor’s first days. He knows the tales, of course—he learned them at his father’s knee, well enough to recite each name in the lines of Kings and Stewards, to recall every battle fought to keep Gondor’s people safe. But to hear it told now, so far from home… his love for every inch of his land aches him terribly. When silence falls he cannot stop himself. He stands and speaks…  
  
“Give me leave, Master Elrond, first to say more of Gondor.”


	10. Of the Wisdom of Wizards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir's thoughts on wizards.

Stories of Mithrandir’s wisdom were not uncommon in Gondor. The wizard was well known, and although they had met only twice, Boromir had heard much more about him from Faramir. His brother’s fascination had not rubbed off on him, though; he had been more inclined to adopt their father’s distrust of the Grey Wanderer.   
  
Now here they stood between wolves and wall, as he had feared. He was surprised to see the doors appear, glimmering faintly on the stone. But then, to learn this?  
  
“But do not _you_ know the words, Gandalf?”  
  
He was surprised at the depth of his surprise.


	11. Dreams of Osgiliath, Dreams of Minas Morgul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of sleeping cities is stolen from Gaiman's _Sandman_ but it seemed a reasonable place to find it.

**Dreams of Osgiliath**

The city slumbers under the dust of years. The men who walk here now seem hard and sharp against her soft ruin, yet shadows have walked here longer and flit amongst them. One man looks up, suddenly, to see a distant street appear, clad in shining silver. It is like a trail of stars running off into the gloom. For a moment it beckons with echoes of song and life, and he wishes to chase the silver street, see where it leads. Wisely, he does not: the city dreams, and the dreams of cities are no place for living Men.

 

**Dreams of Minas Morgul**

A place of dread it is. It has long since been corrupted, but the city’s dreams resound with old majesty. Through them run dark lanes, with windows empty and cold far above, glaring with a bitterness that could make any who saw them shiver. In its dreams, it watches its fair twin across the river, and dreams of waking. It knows it would be a fearsome thing if it did; it would defy distance and the two would clash. Even the city does not know what would happen then, but it dreams that it does, and its dreams are dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If the city was dreaming," he told me, "then the city is asleep. And I do not fear cities sleeping, stretched out unconscious around their rivers and estuaries, like cats in the moonlight. Sleeping cities are tame and harmless things. What I fear," he said, "is that one day the cities will waken. That one day the cities will rise."
> 
> \--Robert, "Worlds' End: A Tale of Two Cities" by Neil Gaiman


	12. Waves of Dol Amroth

T.A. 2992  
  
Faramir awoke in the dead of night, and immediately leapt out of bed in panic. His breaths came fast and hard as he hurried barefoot across the room to the window. It was too dark to see, and his heart pounded too loudly in his ears to hear anything. Out into the hall, through a maze of unfamiliar passages he walked quickly, just barely not running.   
  
Once outside, the sea wind hit his senses. He stood there, still as stone, staring into the night. The moist salt air wove around him, and he felt out of place, and terribly small.  
  
~*~  
  
The next evening, after the sun had set, Imrahil told Faramir and his brother to put on their warm cloaks.  
  
“Something special to see. You’ll like it, I think.”  
  
They walked down to the edge of the coast. From some distance, the lanterns on fishing boats out in the water could be seen, shivering specks against the darkness. But there was something else…  
  
“The sea… it glows!” Boromir cried out as they approached. Faramir said nothing, but only stared at the waves. As they broke on the shore, they shone as if lit from within with a crackling green-blue flame, and the whole sea glinted with a tracery of strange light.  
  
“We don’t often see this from land, but if you sail out far enough, it is common,” their uncle told them.  
  
Boromir dashed off to inspect the water up close, carefully keeping short of the point where it lapped over the sand. The places where he stepped glowed dimly with the sea-light as he passed.  
  
Briefly, Faramir recalled his dream of a dark wave towering above him, its edges glinting with light.   
  
Then he put the thought aside and walked down toward the water, glowing bootprints trailing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "sea-light" actually exists--it's the result of a red tide with bioluminescent phytoplankton, and it's really spectacular-looking at night. To my knowledge, it is more common away from the coasts, but I haven't personally seen it there.


	13. Another Night at the Prancing Pony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Bilbo & Frodo's Birthday Masquerade" at the Brothers of Gondor message board.

Things had just got back to normal in Bree after all the excitement a few weeks before, and the Prancing Pony was brimming with a particularly festive crowd because of it. Barliman, who seemed scattered at the best of times, was trying to keep up with greeting all his guests and seeing to their needs and filling their mugs, the many little things that kept his mind and his feet busy all the time. He listened with only half an ear to the talk and the singing.   
  
One of the tunes, though, reminded him of the song Mr. Underhill had sung—the one that had ended in all the uproar—and he found himself trying to recall it. Something about a cat with a fiddle, was that right? As the night wore on, the song came back to him bit by bit, except for a few lines which still escaped him…  
  
A loud crash from the back room brought him at a clip, and he arrived just in time to see an unbroken dish spinning to a halt among the shards on the floor, next to a silver Sunday spoon.  
  
“Ah!” he snapped his fingers, laughing. “That’s what it was!”


	14. Fiddlesticks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Bilbo & Frodo's Birthday Masquerade" at the Brothers of Gondor message board.

Jealously guarded for years, at the same time objects of bitterness and devotion, they sat in a wooden box in the cupboard. Carefully tended, and occasionally taken out and put on prominent display when company of the finest sort came by, but certainly not used by any but her.  
  
Perhaps it was her age telling on her, or the recent events, but it all seemed quite silly now. Lobelia stirred her tea, took a sip, and looked again at the silver spoon.   
  
Three days later, Lobelia smiled as her friends and relations chattered and ate all around her. She had not had so many guests for her birthday in many years—the crowd now was, one gathers, partly the result of her newfound popularity—and this meant that she had to give more presents than usual. Among the guests was a cousin of hers who had been dealt a poor hand by the recent events. The younger lady was still trying to remake something like a comfortable home after so much had been stolen by the ruffians, and Lobelia felt for her. She watched as her cousin opened the clinking package bound with cheerful green ribbon… and felt suddenly lighter.


	15. So Many Fishies Left in the Sea

With golden scales it swam in the river waters. Its existence was cold and simple—small insects in the silty bottom for eating, lazy slumber on the currents, yearly spawning. Just now it was drawn by a plopping sound from above—a juicy worm had fallen from the sky! He was lured by it, drew closer… but then his eye was caught by something new. A ray of light slanted to the bottom, glinted off of something. Forgetting the worm, he went to investigate…  
  
“Not a nibble yet, Déagol?”   
  
“No. But it’s a fine way to spend your birthday anyhow.”


	16. From the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Denethor, Thorongil

A stranger from the North. That he is a stranger all seem to forget, as they praise him so highly and heed his words well. It is those words—the strange tones in his speech—that make me wonder, for they are not the shining tones of our neighbors among whom he dwelt for a time. It is more like to the speech of a man I met long ago, who had traveled to the Golden Wood, and somehow gained admittance there.   
  
But what Men still live so near the Elves, in these fading years? I might hazard a guess…


	17. Stand Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall of Osgiliath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the challenge "it never happened" at the LJ comm tolkien_weekly.

“Stand fast! We will stop them here,” Boromir shouted above the furious din of hammers and picks. In the distance, Faramir’s company held back a wave of foes, buying only moments.   
  
Closer they came, enemy pursuing; and he saw Faramir fall stricken. Forgetting all else, he reached him. “I must tell you of my dream…” Faramir said, whispers heavy over the raging of the river. But his voice too soon faded.  
  
Boromir knelt beside him on the damp ground, head bowed, and would not leave.  
  
At dawn, the Steward learned that Osgiliath had fallen, and with it both his sons.


	18. Winter

**Winter: Snow**  
  
It was something of a rare event in Minas Tirith, unexpected but not unwelcome. The storm had blown in across the mountains the previous night, and in the darkness, while the city slept, snow had fallen in thick flakes cast about by cold winds. And then the city awoke to wonder. In the morning light, gentle billows glistened on windowsills and high rooftops, and the Anduin seemed a band of black ice in the distance. Emerging into a hushed stillness, folk in their warmest cloaks blinked at the sight of the White City clad in the first snow of winter.

  
  
 **Winter: Ice**  
  
“It is pretty, but I would enjoy it more if it were warmer!” Finduilas said with a laugh as they walked, taking in the sight of the city under snow. It was her first winter in Minas Tirith, and she, accustomed to mild Dol Amroth weather, had not yet adjusted.   
  
“If it were warmer, it would not be as pretty,” Denethor countered.  
  
“True, but my hands feel like ice,” she added playfully.   
  
He took her hands in his, and held them close. “That, at least, can be amended,” he said, and from under her star-lined hood came a warm smile.  
  
 ****

 **Winter: Frost**  
  
The night before, it had snowed. Some time later, the passage of many feet or the slow melt of midday would mar the perfect whiteness, but for now the world was blanketed, quiet and shining and perfect. Warm and comfortable inside, Faramir and Boromir sat gazing out. “I wonder what makes it do that,” Faramir said suddenly.  
  
“What?” Boromir asked after a pause, seeming surprised. “The snow? It’s the same as rain, except when it’s too cold for rain, it freezes, and…”  
  
Faramir shook his head. “I know _that_. But what makes the patterns in the frost on the window?”  
  
 ****

 **Winter: Cold**  
  
He returned home, and after making a brief report to his father, he made his way towards his chambers, seeking the warmth of a good, roaring fire and hot tea to melt the constant chill that had set in. He wished that these excursions were not necessary in winter—Orcs also must suffer from the cold, he thought—but alas, they were. Still, for one moment, he did not mind it: when the memory of icy winds and drear grey skies seeped away with the last of the feeling of cold, leaving only the comfort of being home once more.


	19. White, Blue, Black

The cold whiteness of the stone here had been covered for years, long enough that he had nearly forgotten what these walls looked like. When his happy wife grew solemn, he had believed she was longing for her home, and ordered the sea-blue velvet hung all about, hoping it would cheer her. When their son was small, the boy had played in its folds, hiding then springing out, grinning over his own cleverness. This made her laugh at least, he thought. But not enough; still she withered. After their second son was born, he brought a painter to paint a scene of the seaside on the walls of their rooms, so it would be as if she were there again.   
  
“Thank you for trying, my dear husband. But I fear it is not the same; I cannot hear the sea. The air lacks its scent. The shadow still hovers beyond the stone.” She had told him wearily after the painter had finished his task.  
  
His sons watched, their young faces drawn and wet, as he himself took down the velvet, bunching it in his hands in silent grief. In its place he hung cloth of another color. Black, for she was gone.


	20. Fish Kisses

The sound of giggling filled the chamber when Finduilas peeked in on her sons. They appeared to be having a battle of faces: just then, Faramir was in the middle of pulling his fingers back from his ears and uncrossing his eyes.  
  
“What about this?” Boromir said from where he sat on the rug across from his little brother. He bugged his eyes out, sucked his cheeks in sharply and wiggled his lips.  
  
“A fish mouth!” Faramir cried out, laughing. Then he tried to do the same thing, but only succeeded in looking like he had just tasted something very sour.   
  
“No, like this,” Boromir said, helpfully showing off the funny expression again.  
  
Faramir mimicked his actions, and this time succeeded.  
  
A few minutes later, Finduilas found herself beset with an armful of three-year-old giving her fish-kisses that tickled her cheek.   
  
“I taught him that,” Boromir said proudly from nearby.  
  
“And I suppose you remember who taught it to you?” Finduilas said, feigning sternness, and watched as her elder son shook his head in confusion.  
  
With a sudden, mischievous gleam in her eye, she sucked in her cheeks, wiggled her lips, and sent both her sons into gales of laughter.


End file.
